


Sweeter and Sure

by riverlight



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Blow Jobs, College, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-04
Updated: 2013-03-04
Packaged: 2017-12-04 08:23:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/708618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riverlight/pseuds/riverlight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles sighs. “I jerked off, like, seven times in the past twenty-four hours, dude,” he says. “I’m just saying, I’m not sure I’m gonna be good for much.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweeter and Sure

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to dira/dsudis for beta and for fixing the ending! As always, ♥, lady. Title from Hem’s [Leave Me Here](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9DQ7huThNuk), because that’s how I roll.

Somewhere between parking his car in the visitors’ lot and jogging to catch the door that a girl’s holding for him, it occurs to Derek that maybe he should have called. Too late now, though, so now he’s leaning against the wall in the hallway of Stiles’ dorm, trying to look like he’s not as out of place as he feels, listening to Stiles and his suite-mate Wilson have an argument about who should answer the door. 

“Coming,” Stiles hollers, finally, loud enough to Derek’s hearing that it makes him wince. Derek tries to look casual but he’s not sure what to do with his hands. Put them in his pockets? 

Stiles throws open the door, hard enough that it bounces off the wall. “Yes, hi,” he’s saying before he even gets the door open, “welcome to Stiles’s and Wilson’s House of Bondage and Porn, how can I help you—” and then stops, startled, when he sees Derek. 

_Whoops,_ Derek thinks, _maybe a bad idea,_ but then Stiles is barreling into him full tilt, pulling him into some weird cross between a hug and a full-body tackle. 

“House of Bondage and _Porn?”_ Derek says, which isn’t what he meant to say at _all,_ but then that happens a lot around Stiles. “What if I’d been your dad?” 

“Pshaw,” Stiles says, actually says, and who says that any more? “He’s heard me say worse, man, trust me, in the scheme of things I’ve said to my dad that wouldn’t even be in the top ten.” Stiles has unwrapped himself from Derek but now has his fingers tangled in Derek’s belt loops. “Not that my dad would be here _anyway,_ which, speaking of, ” Stiles says, making a ridiculous and suggestive gesture with his eyebrows, “not that I’m not happy to stand here and discuss porn with you all afternoon, but what are you doing here? Didn’t think I’d get to see you at all this weekend.” 

“I should have called,” Derek says. It’d seemed so easy, back in Beacon Hills, to just get in the car and head south for no other reason than that he wanted to, because he’d been alone in the house and missed Stiles and it’d occurred to him suddenly that he _could._ Now that he’s here, though, it feels weirder; what if Stiles has plans? 

“No, totally fine, we’d talked about it, dude, it’s cool,” Stiles says, waving this away. “Unexpected does not mean unwelcome, man, not with you at least. Just, nobody died, right? Nobody’s lying in a pool of their own blood, breathing their last, waiting for you to bring me home so they can say their goodbyes?” He tugs Derek into the suite, pulls the door shut behind him. 

“Everyone’s fine, Stiles,” Derek says, even though Stiles’s heartbeat clearly indicates he’s not really worried about it. “Just like last week, and the week before that.” 

“Just checking!” Stiles says. “You never know.” 

“You guys are weird,” says Stiles’s suite-mate Wilson, from his room. 

Stiles laughs. “Man, don’t even. We had a weird time in high school, okay. I mean, I was in high school, Derek was—” He catches Derek’s look and stutters to a halt. “You know, never mind, doesn’t matter, you probably aren’t even listening any more.” 

“Nope,” Wilson agrees. “Not listening at all. Go mack on your boyfriend, Stiles, I’m busy.” 

Stiles grins and drags Derek into his room. The first year Stiles was in college, he shared a room with a guy named Drake; Drake was a soccer player and a chemistry geek. This year Stiles has somehow wrangled his way into getting a suite, even though they’re usually reserved for upperclassmen. It’s like nothing Derek expected from the stereotypes of college life he’s somehow absorbed—it’s actually weirdly domestic, and Stiles is pretty close with Wilson and his other suite-mates Julie and Charlotte—but he likes it. 

“Hey,” Stiles says, and slides his arms around Derek’s back, like they’re doing a slow-dance. “How are you doing? What’s up?”

“Okay,” Derek says, and leans in to kiss him. “Not much. Just missed you.” 

Stiles hums. “Yeah? Well, mi casa es su casa, man, my dorm room is your dorm room, you know that.” He pulls Derek closer and slides his hands into Derek’s back pockets. His lips are about two inches away, so Derek kisses him again. Stiles smiles into it. 

Derek could kiss Stiles for hours; he gets lost in it, sometimes. He just—he likes it. Likes Stiles’s mobile expressive mouth, likes the slide of their tongues together. Likes the way after they’ve been kissing for a while he starts to smell like Stiles and Stiles starts to smell like him. Likes the way Stiles murmurs things against his lips, sometimes, talkative even while they’re kissing. 

After a while, Stiles pulls away, regretfully. “Listen, I’ve got, like, a half-page left on my Post-Colonial History essay and then I’m done for the day. You mind if it I just get it done? Then I’m all yours.” 

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Derek says, and sits down on Stiles’s bed. “Do you—do you have other plans?”

Stiles laughs. “Turns out my life is a lot more boring when I’m not spending all my time battling supernatural creatures,” he says. “I’d kind of planned to write my paper and play some video games. Now that you’re here, though,” he adds, “maybe I’m gonna switch it up a bit.” 

“Okay,” Derek says. Stiles keeps being glad to see him, keeps making time for him. He probably—he probably should stop worrying so much. 

For lack of anywhere else to sit, he shoves aside Stiles’s duvet and curls into his pillows. It’s—nice, honestly, sitting here watching Stiles shuffle his papers and tap his thumbs absent-mindedly against his computer keyboard, bopping his head in time to whatever it is he has on his headphones. His room is institutional drab, mostly, but there are touches of Stiles everywhere: photos of his father and Scott and the pack tacked up haphazardly on the walls, old ’60s-era works on medicinal herbs tucked in among the textbooks, random piles of camping gear left over from his trips with the college’s Outing Club. Derek’s never had the knack for domesticity; he’s had his loft for a few years now and it still doesn’t feel like a home. Stiles’s dorm room, weirdly, does, for all that it should be temporary.

He must drowse a bit, because the next thing he knows Stiles is clambering over him, nearly elbowing him in the ribs. Derek feels warm and transparent from sleep, as if his subconscious self let down his defenses while he was dozing. “Hey,” Derek says. “You done?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, and leans down to kiss him. “Done and emailed and nothing to worry about until tomorrow. What do you want to do? You want food?” His breath tastes like peppermint gum. 

“Mm, later,” Derek says. Stiles is warm on top of him and the sheets smell like shampoo and semen and sweat and whatever it is that makes up Stiles’s scent, and now like Derek, a little bit. He doesn’t want to move. 

“Okay,” Stiles says, agreeably. “Can I kiss you, then?” 

Derek rolls his eyes. “No, Stiles, I just came down here to hang out and sleep and eat dining hall food. Of course you can kiss me.” 

Stiles pokes him between the ribs. “Whatever, man, I’m just trying to be polite, here.” 

“Stiles. Have you met me?” Derek says. “I don’t care.” 

Stiles rolls his eyes. “I’m just saying—”

Derek grabs his head and pulls him down until their lips meet. “Come _on,_ Stiles,” he says. “Kiss me already.” 

Stiles likes to kiss like it’s a conversation, pushy and confident, like he’s sure of his welcome. He doesn’t limit himself to Derek’s mouth, which had been a surprise to him in the beginning; he likes to kiss Derek’s cheekbones and his closed eyes, likes to drag his lips up the side of Derek’s neck and bite the lobe of Derek’s ear to make him shiver. He likes to tangle his hands into Derek’s hair, cup his hands under Derek’s head while they’re kissing, see if he can make Derek gasp for breath. 

“So, um,” Stiles says, pulling away. His cheeks are flushed, his lips pink; Derek can’t help but lean up, trying to keep kissing him. “Mmnh,” Stiles says, muffled, into Derek’s mouth, and lets him, but that’s not what Derek wants, for Stiles to _let_ him, so he lets his head fall back onto the pillow. 

“You okay?” he says. He feels cold in the places Stiles is no longer touching him. 

“Um,” Stiles says, and stops. He’s biting his lip. “This is embarrassing.” 

Derek marshals his thoughts, but if there’s something embarrassing here, he can’t see it. “What, kissing me?” he says. 

“Hah, no,” Stiles says, then adds, grinning, “though it can be, on occasion,” and Derek grins back at him, remembering the time they got caught making out in the locker room, post-lacrosse win, or the time Stiles’s dad found them, doing what he later, horrified, called ‘necking’, in the kitchen. 

“So, then, what?” Derek says, when Stiles doesn’t seem inclined to continue. He’s flushed all over, now; Derek can feel the heat of it, the blood surging to the surface of Stiles’s skin. He slides one hand into Stiles’s hair, just where it’s getting a little long and beginning to curl at the back of his neck, and Stiles sighs. 

“Mm, that’s nice, don’t stop,” Stiles says, pushing his head into Derek’s hand, but then visibly steels himself. “It’s just, I wasn’t expecting you this weekend.” 

“So?” Derek says, again. He’s not seeing where this is embarrassing, yet, but you have to let Stiles work up to things sometimes, he knows. 

“So I wasn’t _expecting_ you, and I didn’t, uh,” Stiles says, and makes a little wavy hand-gesture. “Didn’t wait.”

Derek grabs Stiles’s hand before he can smack either one of them. “Stiles,” he says. “What are you talking about?” Not that he’s not happy to talk to Stiles if that’s what Stiles wants to do, but a minute ago they were making out and now they’re not, and he’s maybe having trouble keeping up. His body wants to turn in towards Stiles’s body, push closer, burrow deeper. He rubs his thumb into Stiles’s palm. 

“Ugh, I usually know you’re going to be here, and I usually don’t, don’t—” Stiles sighs and flops over onto his back on the mattress, sounding strangled. “I usually don’t jerk off if I know you’re gonna be here, okay?” He’s staring at the ceiling, totally avoiding Derek’s eyes. “And I didn’t know you were coming, and I wanted it, so I did it, and now you’re here, and I’m not sure I can. Um.” 

Not sure he—oh. Huh. Derek can feel himself tensing. “I didn’t—you want me to go?” he says. It doesn’t feel like that’s what Stiles is saying, but—

“No!” Stiles practically throws himself across the bed, a flurry of motion. “No, dude, that’s not what I mean, at all, shut up,” he says. “Are you kidding? If I had my way I’d, like, tie you to my bed and keep you here forever. Only I don’t have a headboard, so, um, I guess it’d have to be, like, a metaphorical thing. A metaphorical keeping you here. You could go to classes and stuff, you could totally pass for a college student, I mean, seriously. A hot college student, so everyone would wonder how the hell I ended up with you, but still. You could pass, is what I’m saying.” 

“Stiles,” Derek says. “Focus.” He’s not sure how they got from Stiles jerking off to him being a college student, and, um. Tied to Stiles’s bed. The thought makes something go all shivery inside him. 

Stiles sighs. “I got off, like, seven times in the past twenty-four hours, dude,” he says. “I’m just saying, I’m not sure I’m gonna be good for much.”

Derek takes a deep breath. Stiles is lying on top of him again, compressing his ribs, making it hard to breathe. He’s all long limbs and heavy weight. It feels good. “So, what, you’re giving me advance warning?” Derek says. He’s not really sure what Stiles is trying to accomplish, here. 

Stiles sighs again, lets his head tip forward so his forehead’s resting against Derek’s. Derek shuts his eyes. “Something like that, I guess,” Stiles says. “I don’t know, man. Just didn’t want you to be—didn’t want you to expect stuff I can’t deliver, you know?”

Derek opens his eyes again. From half an inch away, all he can see is Stiles: the shape of his eyes under his lids, the thin skin of his cheekbones, his feathery eyelashes. “Stiles, I don’t come here for sex,” he says. “I mean,” he says, hastily, when Stiles’s eyes fly open and his heart leaps, “I do, but—not just for that.”

“Yeah?” Stiles says. He sounds—if Derek had to put a label to it, he’d say Stiles sounded cautiously happy. Which. Okay. Maybe he’s not the only one who’s been worrying. Derek feels his own heart begin to pound a little faster. 

“Yeah,” Derek says. It’s true. It feels like he just made some kind of declaration, but— he’s not going to mention it if Stiles isn’t. He slides his hand down Stiles’s back to where his t-shirt is rucked up, to the warm bare skin there. “Do you want to stop?” he asks. 

“Mm, no,” Stiles says, squirming a little bit. His thighs are bracketing Derek’s now, his arms on either side of Derek’s head. It feels—good. Safe. “I’m just saying, much as I want to I don’t think I’m gonna get it up tonight, man,” Stiles says. “You’re gonna have to let me blow you, or something.” 

“Let you,” Derek says. “Yeah, because that’s _such_ a hardship for me, Stiles.” 

“I’ll show you _hard,”_ Stiles says, and tucks his head into the side of Derek’s neck and giggles, because he’s still the kind of guy who finds the word ‘hard’ funny in any remotely sexual context. 

“You won’t, though,” Derek points out, and smiles a bit, despite himself. “You just told me you can’t get it up because you—”

“I meant _you’ll_ be—” Stiles starts, but then clearly decides it’s not worth pursuing and darts up to give Derek a kiss instead, with tongue, lewd. And then Stiles is leaping up and stripping off his clothes and wrestling Derek out of his, and the next thing Derek knows he’s naked and Stiles is naked and—he feels like he’s having trouble keeping up again. With Stiles this close it’s hard to think. 

Stiles is hovering over him, holding himself just off Derek’s body in some weird naked version of a pushup. Derek swears he can feel him, somehow. That’s not how his senses work, but he swears it’s true, anyway: like his body knows Stiles’s body is two inches away, and naked; something electric, humming in the space between them. 

“God, you’re gorgeous,” Stiles says, and collapses down onto him with a huff of breath. 

“You—you, too,” Derek says, which is not what he meant to say, but he doesn’t mind. “God.” No matter how much they do this it’s like a shock, that first moment when all of Stiles’s skin is pressed against him. 

Stiles hesitates, one startled instant, above him. “Really?” he says. “I mean, people don’t usually say that about me, and I, um, I figured you liked me because we’ve been doing this a while now, but, I mean, look at you, between the two of us, there’s no comparison, man.” 

“Stiles,” Derek says. “Shut up.” He grabs Stiles’s head with both hands, tangles his fingers in Stiles’s hair, moves him so that he’s at the right angle for Derek to kiss. Derek tries to put all of it into the kiss, all of what he feels for Stiles: how good it feels to be here with him. How much he likes lying on Stiles’s blue sheets while Stiles writes his essay. “I really like the way you look, okay?” he says, spreading his legs, a little, so Stiles settles closer against him. 

“Yeah, I guess boners are pretty good lie detectors in that regard,” Stiles agrees, arch, but when he ducks his head to kiss Derek back his kiss is sweet. Kissing seems like another language for Stiles, just another medium for communication. _You’re welcome,_ Derek tries to say back. Stiles seems to get it, because he grins. “Which, speaking of,” he says, “I’m gonna blow you, now, dude,” and goes down without further ado. 

He—god. Stiles’s hands are heavy on his hips, holding him down, and his mouth is soft and gentle, and Derek feels like he’s going to shake apart just from this, Stiles’s soft lips and the sight of his tongue darting out to trace around the head of Derek’s cock. He keeps looking up at Derek, watching him like he wants clues about what Derek feels, eyes hot under the dark smudge of his lashes. Derek feels like he can’t breathe. He feels like all the blood in his body is surging towards Stiles, a tidal pull. Suddenly he feels like he might die if he can’t kiss Stiles properly. 

“Come, come up here,” he manages, heaving himself up to sitting, and Stiles practically throws himself into the kiss so hard their teeth clack together. 

“Dude, dude,” Stiles says, between kisses, “this isn’t fair, I want to kiss you and blow you at the same time, it’s too many things to do with my mouth, you don’t even know,” only Derek does, because he wants Stiles to blow him too but kiss him at the same time because he’s too far away otherwise, because Derek feels shaky from having Stiles’s mouth on his cock and shaky from not having it everywhere else and he can’t have it both ways but he wants Stiles all over him. 

He must have said at least some of that out loud, he realizes, because Stiles is pushing him back down and saying, “Come on, come on, like this, please, I want—” and taking Derek’s cock back into his mouth. Only this time he’s got his body draped over Derek’s and his whole body’s holding Derek down and Derek feels like he might fly into a thousand pieces because it’s so good. Stiles’s cock is like two inches from his face, and he—god, he’s not hard, but he smells like arousal and sex and Derek wants to put it in his mouth, so he does. 

“God,” Stiles says, muffled, around Derek’s cock, and then he pulls off and says, “no, don’t stop, it’s weird, but it feels good, please,” so Derek keeps going. 

It feels funny and it’s not like what he’s used to; Stiles’s cock small and soft in his mouth and somehow delicate, a weird combination of sexual and not sexual. It’s warm and he can feel it filling a bit against his tongue, like it’s trying to get hard but can’t quite get there, and—he likes it. Likes that Stiles trusts him with this. 

He lets it rub over his tongue, tastes the soft velvety skin as best he can. Stiles is using his hands and his mouth now and Derek can’t quite get enough air and every time he catches his breath he feels like he’s drowning in the scent of Stiles and sex and the two of them together. 

And—god—he has to let it slip out of his mouth because he can’t hold his head still and doesn’t want to hurt Stiles with his teeth. “God,” he hears himself saying, “Oh, god, Stiles,” and then his whole body is pushing up against Stiles’s weight and that makes it even better and his back is arching and he has to hold onto Stiles, the mattress, something, anything, because he’s coming and it’s like losing his mind. 

Derek apparently misses a significant chunk of time somewhere in there, because when he comes back to himself Stiles has gotten himself turned around and Derek’s draped over him like his own personal blanket, which he doesn’t remember happening at all. “Uh,” Derek says, because he feels wrung-out and incoherent. “Hi.” 

Stiles smiles. “Hi, yourself,” he says. He’s tracing feathery lines up and down Derek’s back with the tips of his fingers, and it makes Derek shiver. “So, uh,” he says, “I’m pretty sure my suite-mates are no longer in _any_ doubt that we’re sleeping together, dude.” He doesn’t sound embarrassed at all, though, more amused. 

Oh. They probably were a little loud. Derek would blush if he could muster up the energy, but—nope. “I don’t think that was ever really in doubt,” Derek points out. “I come down from Beacon Hills pretty much every weekend, Stiles, it’s not like I’d do that if this were casual.” 

Stiles stills. “Dude,” he says, after a moment. “That was practically romantic. Who are you and what have you done with Derek Hale?” 

“Shut up,” Derek says, and thwacks Stiles halfheartedly. “You confessed you save yourself for me, Stiles, don’t think I didn’t catch that.” 

“You shut up,” Stiles says, but it sounds fond. “You gotta know I’m really into you, man.” 

“Yeah, I’m getting that,” Derek says. He’s really pretty into Stiles, too. It feels good to be here with him like this. “Stiles,” he says, turning his head a little so he’s murmuring right into Stiles’s ear. “I feel like I should tell you, but this is embarrassing—” he says, mimicking Stiles’s tone from earlier. He gets distracted for a minute by the scent of sweat drying on the side of Stiles’s neck, but Stiles digs a finger into his side when he stops talking for too long. 

“Oh, are we trading embarrassing secrets now?” Stiles says. “Awesome.” 

He can never tell how much of his non-verbal cues humans can pick up, but he’s pretty sure Stiles knows by now when he’s being playful. He hopes. “It’s just, I’m really into you, too,” he murmurs, and braces for Stiles’s reaction. 

Stiles, of course, doesn’t disappoint. “Embarrassing, huh,” he says, “more like, common sense, or something, of course you’re into me, man, I’m awesome.”

Which: pretty much. Derek grins, and lets Stiles shove him down into his pile of pillows. The bed smells a little like Stiles, from when he jerked off earlier, but mostly like the two of them, together. Derek can’t help smiling.


End file.
